ii.
Mark Kennedy AKA Mark Stone, NPOIU Lynn Watson (alias), NPOIU Marco Jacobs (alias), NPOIU Jim Boyling AKA Jim Sutton, SDS Simon Wellings (alias), SDS Robert Lambert AKA Bob Robinson, SDS John Dines AKA John Barker, SDS Mark Jenner AKA Mark Cassidy, SDS Carlo Neri (alias), SDS "RC" (alias), SDS Gary R. & Abigail L. (aliases), NPOIU Rod Richardson (alias), SDS Mike Chitty AKA Mike Blake, SDS Matt Rayner (alias), SDS Jason Bishop (alias), SDS Dave Hagan/N81, SDS Roger Pearce, SDS Andy Coles AKA Andy Davey, SDS Rick Gibson (alias), SDS Christine Green, SDS Douglas Edwards (alias), SDS John Graham (alias), SDS William Paul 'Bill' Lewis, SDS Alex Sloan (alias), SDS John Clinton (alias), SDS Bob Stubbs (alias), SDS Dick Epps (alias), SDS Michael Scott (alias), SDS Dave Robertson (alias), SDS HN348 / 'Sandra', SDS Dave Jones (alias), SDS / NPOIU James Straven / Kevin Crossland (aliases), SDS Rob Harrison (alias), SDS Jim/Jimmy Pickford (alias), SDS Peter Francis AKA Peter Daley or Pete Black, SDS Vincent Harvey, SDS
To be the common voucher for the character of all the spies & informers in the employ of government
from agitated districts, & not only from a justice, but from a master of justices, sober, loyal, attached to the constitution, & ready to uphold it by any means necessary are sacrifices, legislation & British Standards
O wall coils cut to an (e.g. human) warmth
now dog-legged &hole stricken
I sing aloud from this edge & in your light
Dear Sergeant Yobbo, laid doggo
a hurt leg trembling wild
then your own body trembling & shaking
to annoyance every effort in controlling the shaking
not the pain. The pain isn't even there,
friends
your brightest human warmth
assuming like other members
the identity of a body who had died young
& be made into braids of armaments
& worships invisible now through the spy gash
you unmoved clinking ha'porth
made your mouth to not smiling
I speak through the Special Demonstration Squad
suds using an alias of a stolen life,
a name of a deceased child
Sergeant Yobbo, O hole-strickened hook reaped
tight my own itch
a wraith spiral flickers my face twice
the hole of this wall! O
O I speak your mouths exit a bewitched helve
sunk a knuckle to sunder of thorn by name
by night you have taken this poor duffer
stuffed mother & child on venal breads made nothing
Dear Sergeant Yobbo,
O you have put in the cub once
got up the spout twice, the stick knocked thricely
in the wind keenly this here; a policeman's child
to assume squatters' rights over the unfortunate's identity for the next four years
the identity of a boy who had died young
under evensong of a life misspelt a life mislaid
& love of you
Sarg Yobbo, ,
coughing, screeching filthy stuff
a life entwined code weaving out a spy gash
infiltrate & debase of each wastlings
now forsworn to be a forged a life sundered
in one's own' death certificate--
Frederick Forsyth’s novel 'The Day of the Jackal' explains how to acquire in the name of a dead person & the practice has proved popular among those who would defraud the benefit system or who wish to travel abroad incognito.
of personhood avoid infant death or people aged over 16
with my hand set down on Mr Yobbo,
O how many are in your creation & unreceived
red furrows for me this broken lamp emails trails
iamfatherted@yahoo.co.uk has expired
delivery to the following recipient failed permanently
so to blood caught & O& to what many consider actual blood
I give curses re-emerged/ dead votes,
dad a shaft of light stricken white
since you ruined my life Sarg Yobbo,
closed to skin of mine swathed in vela
to be held in covers & sheets
baby to be made into blackjack or baton upon this cosh
my name born in reverse of you a dead child
or I (I) will break it open &
within a mouth of rolled & folded papers
form an improvised weapon of beermats,
horse brasses, polo mints, shoelaces
& boots squashed to form a cosh
here remaining a stealth weapon
Sargin to create a handle haft
& rounded head at the fold the child
did set it down by name
there a promise pass'd speak long-lost
shy blotted shilled of memory raked with holes
& a secret unit clawed to grapnel nail
of a boy is dead is the whole data,,, irrational ,pellet,
&I in this foisted bloodrot hail upon
Sarg Yobbo,
let sorrow sway this undid my name
& made me at St Catherine's House a grappling hook
It is conceivable that a hostile enquiry into the details you have given may result in you being presented with your own death certificate.
Yobbo spawn
is boy to dog
a foul for what I speak
Do you remember when you fingered my lifehole!
made of me strange & want nothing
to make all good formless of touch
these arms of due furbish in homestead
so sighs & tears cover me
O prodding strange infinite
haloed & shuddered
to hatred if it does not invert
into love through & piercing laughter
who chokes for which all masks are intended
as tender slanting edge of ‘morrow
to incise a name a single blessedness to give curses
for 36 yobbos of philharmonic pitch
sang out Sarg,
kiss my mouth of a boy inverted spells yobbo
itch unfaithed in Margaret Thatcher’s grain
bled to sink a knuckle of eviled blame
as to end end! to end life! to end wishes! break now
to high heavens lullaby roughcast & strung up
once my name upon before
was an oath of twisted faces
O each a year a year blunted working light
to brink finally, the path of gaps in between them; they were like little tapers, flickering & feebling to wretched harmony
SAR YOB SINGS INNOCENCE IS TRUE
&dead of wall’s chink lisped through
you & your tarnished places
as to be undelivered permanently beneath your defenses
O dear last night under a full moon big & bright
some nice person decided to smash my car windows
& steal a single Bowers
& Wilkins 602 speaker (series 3 - black)
a Technics record bag containing a Rotel amp
& various cables & cds & my favourite green jacket
that rites tryst a brooding history of blood cake
on this hateful evening in my eye marveled England
on snakes breathe,, I would rather die than become a Rose scab
into empty space, to empty shells of insects, everlasting
underneath a bandstand dendritic cell are memories
ploughed up to waiting world
Thank heavens for the Earl of Cardigan
My people, our people.
Our friends, our good, generous, warm,
brave, innocent, loved friends
MECHANICALLY DEBONED to 1611,
arising out of Wills, Trustees & co-oxcart prophecy
to suspend the symbolic order
in that glass hole I like to imagine
Christopher Noland, the Last Tory
crying into empty space, to empty shells of insects, everlasting.
He wears periwinkle cufflinks,
black pants, & a herringbone waistcoat.
He sips at a flask of tea.
His soothing air of self-command
is not an affectation; it is borne out of a sense of duty
he counts his steps with a whisper
‘What would David Lean do?’
he asks himself rhetorically. No
n..NNo answer is forthcoming from the dead,
yet he is charmed, momentarily, by his interior accent.
“We’ll go aerial.”
He once wept while reading Hobbes at a boarding school of military persuasion taught him that life is nasty, brutish, & short.
Out there, he remembers, in the fallen world
people are mired in a war of all against all.
‘There is no society . . .’ a dim voice echoes, somehow incepted into his mind…..
ESCAPING THE TYRANNY OF THE MAJORITY
there will always be some who suffer misfortunes
for which they cannot provide
& they should be helped
by relatives, friends, voluntary groups,
& as a last resort of course by the State
David Hart, 1984
O chief insect your name laid arsenic on Brook Street for divine violence the banner was shattered
chilblain scolding & railing against
childers under the average cost of living death in the UK
is poetic justice! O & you do not know those names
Is the function or regulation essential? If it is, can it be undertaken by the private sector? If not, is it being administered efficiently & in a way most likely to have a benign effect on society as a whole rather than on those who are administering it?
Sarg Yobbo, desiccated on evening sick
kissed a stump to be within a budding grove sworn
eating old el Paso & off fleshes red for reds sake alone
& hopeless in thrums curled up
on an L shaped couch
woe twisted silent Catching the Sergeant’s eye I.
&I. I Have Always Worked Hard
